


The Right Time

by MyckiMor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Genderbending, Incest, Language, M/M, Mpreg, Slash, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, and a couple of knocks against feminism and women in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 17:45:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1950348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiMor/pseuds/MyckiMor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was six feet of pure, smart-mouthed, hard-lined man. And, this… The face staring back at him sure as hell didn’t belong to Jess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Time

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous Tumblr Prompt: Wincest genderbending/girl!brother that isn't all sex? Like, they can have it (bonus for preggo scare!), but where it's not the main focus? I like what I've read but I want something different! Thanks honey hope your day gets better xoxoxoxo!

One day, in a fit of over-active hormones and sappy-ass bullshit, Sam had confessed to Dean how lucky he was. Someone had made sure that he, being Sam, had been gifted with not one, but  _two_ very special people in his life. One female, one male. He said he felt like Jess had been a blessing to support him through his time without Dean. And, when the time came, Dean was there to support him through his time without Jess. His heart would only have belonged to one of two people.

One male.

One female.

Currently, staring into the mirror above the motel room sink at his long, dark hair, his mascara-lined eyes, and his… impressive, high, firm but  _totallythewrongtimethanks_ breasts… Dean was neither of those people. He wasn’t Dean, because Dean was six feet of pure, smart-mouthed, hard-lined man. And, this… The face staring back at him sure as hell didn’t belong to Jess. To say that it scared him was quite the understatement. He was terrified. It wasn’t a matter of being stuck like that, no, come Hell or high water, he’d go back to normal. But… What would this mean for them? Sam had made it very clear that he had room in his heart for one woman, and one woman, alone, and Jess was long-gone.

* * *

It had been a month since what they were not-so-affectionately referring to as ‘The Change’. One month since Dean had said one wrong fucking word to a fucking feminist who apparently took pleasure in moonlighting as a twenty-first century priestess. Or, something. Once the girl parts came in to play, his listening skills, which already teetered on the edge of lacking, had suddenly become all but non-existent. He’d been living in this-this-…  _shell_  for four long weeks. He didn’t know who this body belonged to, but, somewhere in the world, he was pretty sure that there was an equally freaked out young woman riding around in his best pair of jeans. He really liked those jeans, too. Man, this fucking sucked.

Okay, so, the issue was getting away from him a little bit. Point was, one full month in, and Dean was still on the bus to Chicksville. Sammy had a lead, sure, and things looked surprisingly promising.  But, he was getting a little jumpy, ready-and-a-half to get back to his regular self. Granted, being a woman had a couple of perks. For one thing, he finally got to experience what sex felt like from the other side (thank you, Sammy). For another, he hadn’t had to pay for a drink since he’d first batted his eyelashes at that insurance salesman back in Modesto. Fucking women, man. A little mindless flirting, and they had the world tripping over its collective feet to please them.

He flinched. Yikes, this was why he was in this predicament in the first place. Fucking women, _indeed._

Though, as much fun as he had been able to scare up in his new skin – and, he’d been having more than his fair share – there were several  _serious_ drawbacks to his new form. For instance, shaving. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to be wasting his shaving cream on his legs, but…  _Fuck_ if it didn’t suddenly feel strange to have stubble brushing against the insides of his pants. Oh, and, the pants. He’d tried putting on his own jeans, only to have them drop to his ankles the second he let go of the waist. Dean hated shopping, he really did. There were so many styles of pants and shirts – and, talk about  _expensive_  – and half of them apparently didn’t match his eyes so what.  _The._ **Fuck.** Dean had happily settled for the first thing that fit, and raced back for the motel. At the time, he felt that he had found the single worst plight of females.

Then, of course, there were the hormones. He had days where he just wanted to punch Sam in the face for no fucking reason, whatsoever. Really, that was nothing new, but it was getting harder and harder to fight the urge back. One wrong word out of Sam’s mouth, and Dean was fully-preparing his speech to the police that it was ‘just an accident’. The inability to battle the god-forsaken hormones brought him to the final down-side to begin a woman. That Time of the Month, which Sam had been poking fun at him about for at least two weeks. Dean was pretty sure he should have experienced that joy of womanhood at some point during the last thirty-one days.

He hadn’t.

That realization was what had lead him to the bathroom in the first place. Dean had stayed behind when Sam went to get lunch and stop off at the library, complaining of false cramps (which, as he found, got him out of fucking  _everything_ ). He’d hopped on the internet once he was sure that Sam was gone, searching symptoms like ‘missed period’, and ‘no patience’, and ‘nauseated’. Dean had to admit that he was still somewhat surprised by the number of websites women had to support one another on these topics. A few clicks in, and the results were what he had feared. Because, yeah, he’d sure as hell been up to - what had they called it? Baby dancing? - since The Change, and this was totally within the realm of possibility. Convinced enough to shut the laptop back down, he’d slipped out to find a drug store.

That had been over forty-five minutes ago. Dean had paced a hole into the bathroom floor since then, first debating over whether to take the tests laid out in front of him.  _It’s just a stupid paranoia,_  he’d told himself.  _Get over it._  But, he had to know. Once the test was out and, well, _wet,_  he’d returned to leaving a groove in the tiles beneath his bare feet.

Two minutes. Two minutes was going to decide the course of his life. No wonder women went all nuts for this stuff. Fucking nerve-wracking, that’s what it was. He’d paused to take a look at his wrecked form in the mirror. Started assessing things. Started  _ob_ sessing over things.

Like, for instance, what Sam was going to say when he found out about this. If there was, in fact, anything to find out about. Further, if Dean even decided to  _tell him_  that there was something going on… What a damned nightmare this was turning out to be. Fucking feminists.

Checking his watch, Dean was satisfied, if not completely fucking nervous to note that a sufficient amount of time had passed, and that he could now check the test. Find out if he was expecting. Oh,  _fuck,_  was that  _ever_  a thought he wanted to bury in the deepest recesses of his twisted little mind.

The offending piece of plastic was settled on the edge of the bathtub, light glaring off the little plastic window, hiding the answer from Dean’s eyes. He was afraid to get any closer. What if it was positive? What if, by some stupid, fucked-up sort of miracle, he and Sammy were actually about to become  _parents?_  They had no time for that, for formula and diapers and check-ups. On the other hand, what were the odds that it was negative? Pretty damned good, he hoped, given that he’d only been test-driving this bad boy for one cycle. It took a lot – and, as he’d found out on those websites,  _a lot_  of time for some couples to have kids. Who was to say that this would even be their month? They might not have even hit one of his fertile days, after all.

 _Jesus H. Fucking CHRIST,_  what the hell was he  _thinking?!_

Snatching the test up from its perch, Dean took a deep, steadying breath.  _Now or never, Winchester._  He swallowed, and turned the test over, to find…

… _Nothing._

“The fuck?” he cursed under his breath as he stared at the blank window. The little hour glass had disappeared, but nothing else had shown up. Dean made a grab for the instructions, if only to verify that, yes, if the test was positive, the word ‘Pregnant’ would actually show up. If negative, ‘Not Pregnant’ would be staring him in the face. But, he had squat. Shaking the instructions further open with one hand, Dean checked for what the absence of a result could mean.

“ _Don’t tip the wand for at least two minutes. Lifting the test too soon could prevent the test from functioning, properly…_ ” He mumbled the words aloud, quickly growing impatient. He hadn’t so much as  _breathed_  on the god-forsaken thing since he’d capped it back off, so that  _clearly_ wasn’t the problem. Skimming further down, he continued. “ _If no result appears in the test window after hourglass has disappeared, the test has malfunctioned. Please, contact the manufacturer._ ” Dean paused, and blinked, twice, before erupting in outrage. “You mean to tell me I have to take this fucking thing,  _again?!_ ” Angry, he chucked both the items to the floor, before taking two more paces around the room.

“Fine, fine,  _one more time,_ ” he grumbled, detouring to the box where the second test sat. In the middle of the aisle at the drug store, he had asked no one in particular, “What the fuck do I need two tests for? It’s not like I’m gonna’ need to double-check myself.” Now, Dean was suddenly thankful for the backup. He understood for all the world why these things came in two-packs.

Snatching the second test from the box, Dean made to open the foil package, when the door to the hotel room opened. “ _Shit,”_  he cursed, grabbing up the evidence of his activities of the passed hour, tossing the used test and box into the waste bin, grumbling all the while,  _of all the fucking times, Sammy._  He tucked the unused test into the pocket of his jeans, the hard plastic pressing tightly against his hip, and, fuck, what possessed women to wear jeans so fucking tight? The instructions, he slipped into the back pocket, tugging his shirt down to try and hide the lines the objects made, before turning to lean against the door frame. Putting on his best, sultriest little smile, he glanced at Sam.

“Hey, there, handsome,” he crooned, pressing his elbow to the door frame, just above his head, to play his fingers through the long hair that they had  _both_  been enjoying, just a bit too much. “That was pretty fast. Find anything useful?”

Jerking his head up, Sam blinked, twice, before nodding. “Yeah, actually. Bobby called.”

Dean’s eyes widened, all manner of false innocence disappearing in a second. “He find the answer?”

With a big smile, Sam continued to nod. Dean had to remind himself to focus. That smile was a big part of what had landed him in this predicament, in the first place. “Looks like it. He said he’d meet us at his place, tomorrow.” They paused, staring at one another for a long moment, one waiting for response, the other in shock, before Sam broke back in. “This could be it, Dean.”

That was all the encouragement Dean needed. “Well, what are we waiting for?” he asked, hustling forward to start packing up his duffel bags. If Bobby had truly found the answer, he’d kiss that old bastard. (Okay, probably not, but, he’d sure hug the hell out of him). The sooner they got to Singer Salvage, the better, especially if Mother Nature was really just waiting to open up the flood gates on him. Part the Red Sea. Whatever the hell the torture was referred to, if he was able to avoid it, they’d best be getting a move on.

Suddenly, Sam chuckled, and Dean paused to give him a look.

“What’s funny?”

“No, nothing.” Sam slung his own bag over his shoulder, and opened the door. “Let’s go.”

Dean had never felt so liberated in leaving four walls for the open road.


End file.
